I react immediately, without thinking. I send the figurine flying away from me, into the night.
I push my back against a tree, away from the cliff’s edge that slices between the grove and the world.
“Stop it.” I would squeeze my eyes shut if I thought it would make the world go away. “Stop it, stop it, stop it.”
Near my feet, something moves. I push back more, folding all the way in on myself. And something slithers away.
Laughter.
Liar. Thief. Addict.
It’s so tempting to swallow the pills and let the darkness take me. Embrace oblivion. It’s so tempting to stop running and accept there’s no other way to let the pain end.
That night in January, when I’d asked Carter if he could find a way to help, he said, “Are you sure you need the pills?”
I had the prescription my doctor gave me, but by then, it didn’t feel like enough. The maximum daily dose could barely mask the physical pain, and if I took them all quickly, she would ask questions. Or the pharmacist would.
There were ways to get more pills off the internet, but they were expensive, and I didn’t have a clue if they were legitimate.
Once upon a time, I would’ve meticulously researched options, like I did with everything else. I would’ve tried to figure out how the drug worked and why, and how I could understand it. Like I did with sports. Or with people. At some point, though, that didn’t matter anymore. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the edges of my vision dissolve into flames. While I could mask the physical pain of my knee being torn and twisted, I still felt hurt all the time.
So why not give this a try and see what happened?
“I’m sure,” I told Carter. “I do.” We sat on the bleachers near the lacrosse field, though it was empty and the sky already darkening.
He hesitated.
“I promise I’ll be careful,” I lied, because I didn’t know how to tell him the truth.
We sat there so quietly that a gaggle of maybe five or so middle schoolers didn’t see us. They ran onto the field and chased after one another effortlessly. And right there and then, I hated them for it.
Carter nodded slowly. “I have to figure out a way to get more cash,” he said, “but I can manage it.”
I side-eyed him.
He shrugged. “Don’t ask.”
“I won’t.”
I expected him to relax at that, roll his shoulders back, stretch his legs. He didn’t. He merely stared back over the field. “Look at how young and innocent they are.”
“Sure, Old Man Carter.”
“We were dating in middle school.”
“We were terrible at it,” I comment.
He laughs and shakes his head. “I wish we could’ve been better at it.”
I didn’t know what to say to that, and he didn’t elaborate. After that day, I never asked about the money, and he never argued that I shouldn’t take the pills, and it was as simple as that.
I wish he would’ve argued more. I wish I would’ve asked. But we were both messed up and messing up, and neither one of us was in a position to tell the other to stop it.
So no, I don’t know what Thief means. I can guess. I could guess, back then. But I didn’t want to know. In the light of all of that he did for me, all that he meant to me, why would I betray his trust? He was a good friend to me, and look where it got him.
Now, in the grove, I take a handful of pills out of my pocket once more and stare at them. They’re so small, and at the same time, they’re everything.
I didn’t used to be like this. “Maddy before the accident” felt stronger. More sure of the world and her place in it. And somehow I lost all of that.
I truly needed the painkillers at first. I wouldn’t have made it through those first weeks without them; the pain was too intense and all-consuming. If the pain had stayed on those levels, I still would’ve needed the pills to do what they are supposed to—kill it.
But no one—not the doctor, not my parents, not my sister, not me—took into account that life as I knew it was ripped apart by the accident. The pills didn’t just kill the physical pain; they killed the emotional pain.
No one noticed.
How could they notice? I’ve grown very adept at lying.
And I know it’s not my fault, not precisely.
Addiction doesn’t work like that. Trauma doesn’t work like that. Depression doesn’t work like that. I know all about how human and neurotypical emotions are supposed to work.
Figure out the details, learn the language, learn the scripts.
The pills are warm to the touch now. If I keep holding on to them, they’ll melt in my hand. Maybe that’s the way to go?
I don’t know how to get out of here alone.
Nothing would’ve been different, if Carter had said no that night in January. Except we wouldn’t have grown so close.
I don’t blame him for helping me; I could never.
I blame him for not being here. Because I really need a hand to hold.
Because I really want him to tell me it will all be okay. And I really want to tell him that I can survive this, that I can find a way.
The pills in my hand stick together. By this point, I usually swallow them. Often, I realize I don’t have any water near, and I can’t be bothered to get some and just swallow them dry. It’s easy to grow skilled at swallowing pills.
I ball my fist around them.
The laughter has died away, but it doesn’t make me feel better.
I want my best friend to be here.
But he’s not. So I speak the words into the night instead. “Hey, C, remember that time at WyvernCon when we spotted
